My Heart Will Hold You
by Pink Snowdrop
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. For John, the world turns differently without Sherlock ... - Friendship, but can be seen as slash (if you wear your goggles ...)


_Many thanks to MrsNoggin for being a very patient and thorough beta-reader - without her, I couldn't have managed to publish a story in English (which is not my first language)_

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He wakes with a stifled scream. It is pitch-dark and for a second he doesn't know where he is and why everything is hurting inside. Then the memory sets in - like a punch to the stomach.

Sherlock is dead.

The words stick to his tongue, fill his mouth, float through the darkness and fill the whole room.

John sits upright in his bed, his pyjama top damp with sweat. He has dreamt again. Every night he has nightmares; not always the same one, but they are all similar. He watches Sherlock fall, himself run, but no matter what he does, he is always too late. Sometimes, when he is lucky, he cannot remember the dream. But he knows Sherlock would have been in it, because he dreams of nobody else since that day.

He looks at the clock on his nightstand. The red glowing numbers show 6:10. He can't and won't fall asleep again, but doesn't want to get up either. What for? There is nothing waiting for him, no one to talk to. But what would he have to say, anyway? He wants to talk to no one, wants to see no one.

Mrs Hudson has given up trying to bring him out of his silent and persistent grief. All her pots of tea, her homemade biscuits and the - what she believed were - encouraging chats were in vain. John was monosyllabic or didn't say anything at all. Once he even shouted at her to leave him alone - and since then, she has. She leaves dinner for him outside the flat, but she never comes in. He is grateful to her and ashamed that he shouted at her, but he doesn't have the strength to talk to her.

Most of the time he doesn't touch the meal or only takes a few bites. He cannot eat, the smell of the hot food makes him feel sick. Sometimes he makes tea and toast for himself, but it hurts, because it reminds him of all the times he made tea and toast for himself and Sherlock.

Everything in the flat reminds him of Sherlock. His things are exactly the way they used to be, the way he left them that day two weeks ago. The violin lies on the desk, next to his computer. John knows he should remove Sherlock's things so that he doesn't have to see them any more, but he is not ready yet. Sometimes he gently runs a finger over the strings of the violin and then he sees Sherlock playing with his eyes closed, softly swaying to the music.

Then tears will burn behind his eyes, like so many times over the last few days. Sometimes he can fight them back, most of the time he cannot. He's never cried as much as he has in the last two weeks.

When he cannot stand the longing for Sherlock anymore, he walks into his friend's room. The moment he opens the door it feels as if Sherlock is there. His scent fills the air and John closes his eyes. He hears Sherlock talking, sees his smile - not the fake one, used to achieve something he wanted, but the genuine one that came so rarely but was warm and heartfelt.

He opens the wardrobe and looks at Sherlock's clothes on the hangers. His suits, his shirts - all black or white and one purple. John slowly runs his hand over the sleeve of the purple shirt and he seems to feel Sherlock's warmth and the muscles in his arm under the fabric.

When the memories in the flat overwhelm him with pain, he goes outside.

But outside the flat it is not better at all. He wanders aimlessly through the streets and wonders why everything is as it used to be. The rain is falling, the trees sway in the wind and all the people look as before. How can that be? The world turns differently without Sherlock, but no one seems to notice. He wants to shout to passers-by "Sherlock is dead", but he remains silent and slowly walks back to Baker Street, his eyes dropped because he doesn't want to see the different world that is still the same as before.

When he opens the door to the flat, the pain envelops him like a blanket. It paralyses him, makes him deaf and tears a hole in his guts. Memories come creeping from every crack, they follow him, no matter how he tries to distract himself from them.

He turns on the TV, but he doesn't understand the talking and only sees incoherent pictures.

At some point he goes to bed, though he is afraid of the nightmares. He lies in the dark, waiting for sleep to come. But first there are the memories coming back to him. He sees Sherlock, hears his voice, feels him, his closeness, his warmth, his breath in his face.

His mind tells him Sherlock won't come back, he has to let him go, but his heart will hold on to him, won't believe what his eyes have seen.

He must have fallen asleep because all of a sudden he awakes with a start. The dreams were there again. He looks at the clock. A new day has begun. Another day without Sherlock.


End file.
